Autumn Leaves are Falling
by olyphantastic
Summary: Raylan goes for a walk to clear his head.


He grabbed his threadbare Harlan Baseball sweater and tugged it on over yesterday's tank top.

The well worn and loved sweatshirt was too small for his growing frame and his arms furled out from the ragged edges a good two inches.

He stopped a moment to finger the patch expertly stitched on one elbow before snugging his cap down over his eyes. He remembered Momma, needle and thread in her hand and sadness in her eyes, sewing that in there after his tiff with Dickie Bennett on the Everett diamond.

He hated disappointing his momma. He wished he could take it back after he saw how sad it made her, even if it made Arlo swell with fatherly pride for about an hour and a half until the whiskey turned him mean again, and even if knocking that cunt's knee sideways made him feel powerful and righteous.

He thought about Arlo toting him to every puddle between the field and home, slapping him on the back and tousling his hair until he was too drunk to stand and Raylan had to drive them home, toes barely reaching the pedals in the old F-100 as he peered between the steering wheel and dash.

He stepped into his worn old boots and lazily sauntered outside, skillfully avoiding the one tattletale floorboard situated squarely in front of the exit. The crisp Autumn air filled his lungs and the earthy scent of the Kentucky hillside stuck in his nostrils. The leaves had begun to change and mornings were chilly.

He held onto the ragged screen door and closed it gingerly, knowing precisely when in the swing to pull up on the handle to even out the frame and silence the creaking hinges. He wanted desperately not to disturb Arlo, who had just cussed himself to sleep in his TV chair after a very long night of drinking and fighting. He'd checked that the old man was still breathing before going out, more out of moral obligation than feelings for his father.

Arlo looked pitiful as he slept- snoring like a chainsaw with drool dribbling down his chin, eye swollen shut, lip split open and knuckles bloody- but Raylan knew as weak as he no doubt appeared, he was not to be taken lightly.

The man was made of hardened steel and coal dust.

Raylan wasn't afraid of much, but Arlo could whip him better than any boy or man he'd ever fought and Raylan had fought plenty.

His arms were like tree trunks, fists like sledge hammers.

The one time Raylan fought back, about three years ago, after Arlo slapped Momma hard enough to knock her to the kitchen floor, he'd fractured his hand connecting with Arlo's iron jaw. Of course, Arlo stood the punch with ease and returned it ten fold.

Raylan was out of school for two weeks and his momma worried he might go blind from the concussion.

It was best to avoid Arlo all together, to simply not be around when he was awake, remove yourself and the possibility of being the convenient body for him to focus the hate and bitterness and fury on.

He oozed on down the dirt road, enjoying the silence and solitude, fishing pole slung over one shoulder and tackle box in the opposite hand, cooler jammed in that elbow and rucksack over this shoulder.

He chewed on a piece of grass as he was trying to quit smoking. He knew Momma wouldn't approve. He couldn't bear the thought of her looking down on him from heaven with sadness in her angel eyes as he puffed himself to death.

The autumn leaves rustled and swirled around his feet. He hummed some long forgotten memory, a lullaby Aunt Helen used to sing him when he was a boy and he'd run off to Indian Line afraid this was the night Arlo'd finally kill Momma.

She'd let him cry himself to sleep in her lap, wrapped in the warmest afghan she'd ever knitted. She stroked his blonde hair and sang softly to him til he tired himself out, then she'd wake him up with blueberry pancakes and Have Gun Will Travel.

She'd let him stay around for a few hours, then she'd drag him, crying, out to the Falcon and back to Arlo.

She'd leave him in the living room to wag her finger at Momma and sometimes a handgun at Arlo in the kitchen.

A zephyr of damp, earthy air caressed the dieing leaves again and shook him from his rueful reminiscing. A herd of deer stood paralyzed and unblinking in the low, dew-soaked White Burley meadow by the roadside.

Raylan, too, stood as still as death as they stared him down. The crisp fall breeze carried their musky scent to his nostrils and the hair on his neck stood up. He crouched slowly to relieve himself of his cache of goodies.

The buck flicked an ear and turned to run, tail flagging in the sun. He was beautiful- strong and noble looking. He had a deep girth and wide chest, a thick neck and long legs. His eyes were large and glossy and he was draped in a glowing tawny hide.

With the fluid grace of a ballet dancer, Raylan produced from his bag a rifle, chambered a round and fired.

The big stag faltered, wavered like a leaf in the breeze or grass in a stream but righted himself and bounded off into the bushes.

Raylan heard the round hit meat and he knew he'd fatally wounded that magnificent deer.

"Well, shit," he muttered as he waded out through the waist high grass, packing all of his gear, wishing his aim were better and he'd brought some DEET.

He followed the trail of blood about a mile into the woods when he came upon a clearing.

The tenacious buck was there, dieing beneath a weeping willow and beside a slow moving stream. His herd grazed nervously in the distance.

He lay there, in the bluegrass, seeping life and wheezing.

He struggled to stand as Raylan neared, crimson foam frothing from his nose and mouth.

He managed to get his legs beneath him, but not to stand. For this, Raylan was thankful. The last thing he needed was to be eviscerated by flailing hooves.

The majestic stag stared at Raylan as he produced his bowie knife and closed the distance between them. He approached from the rear to slit the deer's throat. He watched with morbid curiosity as his big, damp eyes lost their light and the rattling slowly stopped.

The bluegrass turned burgundy.

Raylan stripped out of his sweatshirt and gutted his prey.

He rinsed his blade, arms and hands in the stream.

He fashioned a travois to drag the kill and all of his fishing shit back to the road.

He huffed out a breath as he thought about dragging all of that back through the tangle of woods and grass and shit between him and home.

Instead, he flopped down near the bloody earth beneath the willow tree and unpacked his lunch. He dropped his line in the water.

He relaxed in the gore and listened to bird songs while he sipped his home brew and watched the clouds drift by.


End file.
